Brew

by Bill Braddock

  They tried the door. It was locked.

  "Got a credit card?" Cat asked.

  Steve said he did, and Cat shifted foot to foot while he pulled his wallet and plucked a card at random. Nearby, a crazy made his own particular public service announcement. Galaart! Gaaat! It sounded like he was right out front, maybe even on the side of this house.

  "Here," Steve said and pushed the credit card into Cat’s hand.

  "This might fuck it up a little."

  "Go for it. Just hurry."

  She tucked the card into the seam below the lock, slid it to the bolt, and went to work, flexing and pushing the card, working it under the bolt with short sawing motions and using her other hand on the doorknob. The card slipped in, the handle twisted, and the door opened. Cat’s breath shuddered free. A second later, they pushed the door closed behind them and checked the lock.

  The house was dark and quiet.

  "Hello?" Cat called out into the darkness. Steve tensed. It was probably the thing to do, but shit…what if…well, it was too late now. Cat called into the darkness again. "Hello?"

  The house was silent.

  Outside, it sounded like the shouter was moving away. Good riddance, asshole, Steve thought. Galaart right back at you.

  They moved into a dim living room. Light falling through windows illuminated a well kept room: wainscoting topped by striped wallpaper; glossy hardwood floors; a couch, a love seat, and two big chairs upholstered in rusty plaid fabric. Atop the coffee table sat a book, Pyrotechnicon by Adam Browne. On its cover, an old sailing ship soared in cloudy sky, borne aloft by a shining white wing. Steve loved Adam Browne’s stuff, its rich spill of language, all that glorious wonder. He wished he could just plop down into one of the recliners and revisit Cyrano and Company, let the outside world blur away…

  "Hello?" Cat called once more into the darkness. There was no reply.

  Steve turned from the book. He heard a clock ticking in the kitchen.

  "I don’t think anyone’s here," Cat said.

  Using their flashlights, they entered a cinnamon-scented kitchen, where light falling through slatted shades cast alternating horizontal ribbons of light and shade across the cabinetry and countertop of the opposite wall. On the refrigerator, clusters of magnet-pinned photos showing family events, tow-headed kids at the beach, and those same kids, older, in school photo poses, surrounded a blue ribbon awarding the title #1 Grandmother.

  Leaning into the next room, Cat called, "Hello? Anyone home?"

  All was still.

  Steve leaned against the counter.

  "Look," Cat said, pointing. "Tea towels. Are you guys old friends?"

  They laughed.

  "How you holding up?" Cat asked him.

  "My gut hurts."

  "It must. That guy really stuck you."

  He lifted his shirt, winced, and let it drop again.

  Cat said, "I’ll run upstairs and see what they have in the family medicine chest. A number one grandma ought to have a decent stockpile, right?"

  "Let’s hope so. Hold on," Steve said, grunting as he came away from the counter. "You’re not going up there alone."

  "Take it easy, Steve. I’ll be fine."

  "To hell with that. We’ve made it this far together, we’ll stick together."

  "All right."

  The stairs creaked beneath their weight. People stared in black and white from frames hung upon pinstriped wallpaper peeling at the edges. Steve held his field hockey stick in a shaky, sweaty grip.

  His gut throbbed.

  They paused on the second floor landing and called out again. Nothing.

  "We’ll get you cleaned up," Cat said, leading Steve by the hand. He managed to nod. "Here," Cat said, pointing the little flashlight into a second-floor bathroom.

  The little bathroom smelled musty. Everything was pink—the walls, the sink, the tub—and pink shag carpet covered the toilet tank and the lid of the toilet tank. Where wallpaper had peeled, Steve saw the room’s past: aquamarine paint speckled with mold. What secrets lie behind the walls of the world? he thought, and was surprised to feel a pang of sorrow. The must, the mold, the peeling paper…it all bespoke meager dreams melting away…age…loss…

  Cat drew the blinds, closed the door, and flicked on the light. Everything went way too bright for a moment, jarring Steve from his brief melancholy, and then adjusted. Cat opened the linen closet, and Steve heard her rustling through cans and containers until she withdrew a familiar looking brown bottle. Hydrogen peroxide. Her hands fumbled with the cap and it clattered across the bathroom tile. "Take off your shirt," she said.

  "That’s my line," Steve said, forcing a smile.

  "Let’s go," she said.

  Steve did his best. She helped him. He winced—that crazy fucker had really skewered him—but they got the shirt off and tossed it in a bloody heap in the tub. Cat hissed. A red smear stretched across the lower right side of his abdomen. Where another person might have appendicitis scar, Steve had twin holes still draining blood.

  "Here we go," she said, wiping at the wound with a damp washcloth. Every motion brought fresh blood. "You’re not a hemophiliac or something, are you?"

  Steve laughed. "Thank God, no. Just bleeding. That’s it."

  "We’ll get it stopped." She pressed a towel into the cut and held it there. "It’s an old cliché, but you’re lucky, you know?"

  "Real lucky. Some nut stabs me with a fork."

  "A couple inches to the left, and you’d be leaking more than blood."

  Steve didn’t want to think about that. "How’s it look?"

  She pulled the towel away. "Like hell. You need stitches."

  "Somehow, I think the hospital’s a little full right now."

  "We’ll do our best." As Cat tended his wound, cleaning it and applying pressure to slow the bleeding, Steve ran his hand through her hair. It was light and fine, and his fingertips passed through it easily. With one finger, he traced her eyebrow, the outer curve of her cheekbone, her jawline…

  She tilted her head and grinned up at him. "Keep that bloody finger away my mouth, Casanova."

  He laughed and it hurt. He took her by the chin and lifted her face lightly to his own, and they kissed, eyes closed, for a long time. At last, they broke apart, Cat uncapped a tube of antibiotic cream, and only then did Steve realize she’d kept pressure on the wound all through their kiss.

  "Why," he said, "did I have to wait until this whole mess to meet you?"

  "Un-fucking-lucky timing," she said.

  "That’s tmesis."

  "Very good. Let’s get these things pulled together. Good old Grandma has a wonderful assortment of adhesive bandages. I’ll start with butterflies."

  "Whatever you say, Doc."

  "You know," she said, pinching one of the holes together, "it’s probably a good thing that we didn’t meet until today. I figure you’re a love-em-and-leave-em kind of guy."

  "Where’d you get that idea?"

  Cat smirked at him. "Female intuition."

  There was no bullshitting this girl. Steve had no intention of trying anyway. "Regardless of what you’ve heard," he said, "I’m not some brainless asshole bent on sleeping with every girl in town."

  "Just the pretty ones, right?" She said. "There, all better."

  "Thanks. And no. Look," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, "this is going to sound like complete bullshit, but I’ve never met a girl like you. Seriously. Don’t look at me like that. You’re…different. I mean, you’re hot as hell, but you’re not just looks. You’re smart and you’re tough and I don’t know…you’re funny."

  She nodded, but her grin was still dubious. "All right, Romeo. You seem sincere, but we’ll see. Anyway, I’m glad I’m with you tonight. And you’re all right, yourself."

  "Just all right?" he asked, grinning.

  "I’ll leave it at that for now." She turned, replacing the things she’d taken from the closet, and Steve enjoyed the view. A+, indeed. "What do you thin
k happened? What caused all this? Do you really think it was the beer?"

  He shrugged his shoulders. "I don’t know, but I think so. Sometimes, I get gut feelings."

  Cat pointed to the bandage. "Gut feelings?"

  "Ha, ha," Steve said. "It does make sense, though. A lot of people drink Cougar Piss. If somebody dosed it…"

  Cat nodded. Then, abruptly, she said, "This is going to sound horrible, Steve, but do you think we should split up?"

  Steve stopped, took her by the shoulders, and looked into her face. "Why in the world would we do that?"

  "What if you’re wrong about the beer? What if it’s something else? What if one of us did go crazy? I wouldn't want to hurt you, Steve. I can't even think about it. If we went our separate ways—"

  "Don't even go there."

  "We have to think about it, Steve. I mean, it could happen. We have to be prepared. People who don't plan ahead die."

  "Fuck splitting up. I'm not leaving you to all these crazies. That's why everything's falling to pieces right now. How many people did you see sticking together, helping each other? Everybody's running around, looking out for number one. When the shit hits the fan like this, people should unite."

  "You’re right," she said, and she pulled his head into an embrace. "It’s just such an awful thought, and I wanted you to think about it."

  They kissed again. They started slowly, softly, but the heat built, and their tongues pushed against each other. Steve pulled away. Cat straightened. He drew her to him, lifting her shirt so that he could kiss the warm, flat expanse of her stomach. His hand moved up her narrow waist, over her ribs and onto her firm breasts. He heard her breath catch, then she pulled away and, eyeing him, went to her knees on the floor before him. She tugged his belt loose, unbuttoned his jeans, and tugged his boxer briefs down his legs. Then she lowered her head, still maintaining eye contact, and took him in her mouth. Steve tensed, then eased back. Her mouth and hands moved in slow unison.

  The world went away. No more pain, no more fear. Just this unbelievable girl, this wonderful sensation.

  Then, gently, Steve stopped her, pulling her head away and taking her face in his hands and kissing her, and he helped her up and led her out of the bathroom, across the hall, to a dark room and the bed at its center. She lay on her back, and he removed her pants and kissed the places where her legs had been injured. It pained him to see the big bite marks, the bruises. His kissed up her leg, hooked his fingers into her thong, and peeled it away. Cat’s fingers were buried in his hair. She lifted his head.

  "Wait," she said. "Shouldn’t we bring the weapons in here?"

  "Forget the weapons. Just lay back. I want to do something for you."

  "But what if someone comes?"

  Steve grinned. "You will."

  Chapter 29

  He waited, rock in hand, at the back of the building, for the shooter to fire again. Behind him, a lone vehicle sat in the small parking lot. It was an old Crown Vic, dark blue, a former patrol car. Was it former, though? Or was the shooter a cop? He sure as hell hoped not.

  Bang!

  Four stories up, the rifle shot again. Demetrius swung the rock.

  As he had expected, the window shattered easily. Unfortunately, it also made a lot of noise. Well, there isn’t shit you can do about that now, trooper. Just drive on. Fast.

  He used another rock to clear away the jagged glass fringing the frame. Seconds later, he was inside.

  It was an office, communal, flimsy cubes segregating work stations. Demetrius moved through them, looking for weapons.

  What did he have?

  Nothing.

  Shards of broken glass wouldn’t do much against a sniper at any distance whatsoever.

  He scanned the room. A few bottles sat in a glass case near the door, but Demetrius doubted they were anything too volatile or they’d be under heavier guard. Besides, what would he do with volatile chemicals anyway? Sure, he’d sat through courses in improvised munitions, but the army gave you courses on everything, and unless you were special ops, putting that shit to use on a daily basis, you just paid attention in class, took some notes, and kept a manual ready. And in all his years, he’d never needed to improvise a bomb.

  Still, there had to be lots of natural weapons available here. Somewhere. There had to be a whole range of things that even he would be able to recognize as dangerous. Like some bottle labeled "Use this to make bomb". That would be all right.

  But he had no such luck.

  Bumping around in the darkness, he opened a desk drawer and found a large pair of scissors. He picked them up and jabbed the air. They weren’t much of a weapon, not against a gun, but they were better than nothing. And what was that old statistic? A knife beat a holstered pistol at twenty-seven feet or less, every time? Something like that. Not that this guy had a pistol, let alone one tucked in a holster. All the same, rifles—and especially heavy sniper rifles—could be cumbersome, slow. Demetrius tucked the scissors into his belt and went back to searching the desk drawer.

  Pencils, pens, tape. Nothing much. What could he do, lasso the guy with tape?

  A small, metal cylinder. He pulled it from the desk and knew just what it was. He depressed its single button and a red dot appeared on the opposite wall. A laser pointer. Useless. What would he do, shine the dot on the sniper, tell him it was a laser sight?

  Get real, Devereaux.

  Ironically, a laser pointer not much different than this had been one of his primary weapons in the military. Sometimes, pilots couldn’t spot highly camouflaged targets. That’s where the scouts came in. They’d set up an OP and hunker down for days, radioing back all movement along a specific road and anything incidental in the region. Then, once a target was acquired, the scouts would radio nearby fighter jets, and when the flyboys got close, Demetrius would shine down the laser pointer on the target, and blamo. No more target.

  Well, he had the pointer. Now all he needed was the radio and the jets. He dropped the thing in the drawer and started to shut it, then pulled it open and picked up the pointer again.

  The helicopters. He’d heard them just before coming inside. They weren’t coordinated fighter planes, but they were something, and maybe there would be someone with a little Gulf War experience on board.

  From the right vantage point—it would have to be the library—he might be able to pull it off, signal a passing copter, use the pointer to pin the sniper as a target.

  Could it work?

  Yes.

  Would it work?

  Probably not. An attempt would mean somehow getting to the top of the library and waiting for a helicopter. Then, if one did pass slowly enough to see him, he would have to hope somebody on board would understand what he was doing, piece it together, and wipe the sniper. And during all of this, the shooter and approximately ten million bloodthirsty lunatics would be trying to kill him. All in all, not the best plan. But he slipped the pointer into his pocket just in case.

  There wasn’t much in the room.

  Time to move, check the rest of the building. He had to be smart, though. If this was organized terrorism—and it sure the hell looked and smelled like organized terrorism to Demetrius—the sniper could be part of a militarized team. A team with sentries, close-range, clean-up guys waiting for somebody dumb enough to come inside. Somebody like me, Demetrius thought.

  He peered out the small window of the outer office door, scanning the big, bright lobby for movement. Nothing. He cracked the door, moving slowly, and listened. Nothing. Conscious of sentries, he pushed the door open, let it shut again, moved away, and waited. Nothing. He tried it again, holding it this time, keeping his arm out there. Nothing. Next, he pushed the door open and leaned out, panning the well lit room. Still nothing.

  He moved into a bright lobby filled with modern art. Even moving quickly, he noticed one of the paintings sagging, holes eaten though it, paint on the floor.

  Far above, the rifle fired again.

  The faster I get
up there, Demetrius thought, the fewer people are going to get shot.

  And then he thought: Unless, of course, I race up there under that pretext and get myself shot.

  That was key: don’t get shot.

  A wide hall split the rest of the first floor. Classrooms to the right, classrooms to the left. He went through a set of double doors into the darkness of Lab One. Once inside, he flicked a bank of switches near the door, and the overhead lights came to life. Turning on the lights made him nervous, but he was pretty certain there weren’t any sentries on this floor, and he had taken enough coursework in nuclear, biological, and chemical warfare to know that he didn’t want to bump around in a darkened laboratory. So on went the lights, and Demetrius began his search.

  It was a big, rectangular room with rows of long tables that reminded Demetrius of the slate science tables he’d used as a kid: a sink at each end, Bunsen burners, stools. Nothing that he could use.

  At the far end of each table, what looked like a cross between an aquarium and an oven ran from slate to ceiling. A closer look revealed a large glass area surrounded by a black metal housing obviously meant to filter dangerous fumes out of the classroom. The interior of these glassed-in areas were workspaces, and visible within were nozzles of different colors. This must have been where chemistry students mixed their shit together.

  Demetrius popped open cabinets at the base of one work station and found various glassware, along with bottled chemicals he did not recognize. Two were labeled "Solvent: flammable".

  Now we’re getting somewhere. Setting these aside, he continued his search.

  Toward the back of the room, he found the first tank.